


Home

by thejabberwocky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Feelings, Gen, Mostly a rewrite, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9356726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejabberwocky/pseuds/thejabberwocky
Summary: "Two years was too long.  You weren't quick enough, clever enough, strong enough, and--The world wasn't waiting for you when you got back.  Nothing was just like you'd left it.  Home wasn't home anymore, but you suppose it's better than nothing.  You suppose it's better than still running, even if it's not Home."Picks up from the beginning of series 3, and is only slightly AU. The events and cases of series 3 and series 4 will be covered, but this is a more delicate Sherlock, more affected by his time away, as I feel that will lead into his more emotional self in series 4 better. Sherstrade if you squint, but nothing explicit.Updates will be slow. You've been warned.





	

_Run. Run, run, run—run fast enough, and you might make it. You might get to go back to Baker Street, you might get to see John again, you might get to see Lestrade again, you might get to see Mrs. Hudson again, you might get to see Molly again, you might get to see Mycroft again, you might get to go home._

_Run. Run, run, run._

* * *

 

_(For a sociopath, you've got an awfully long list of people you can't fathom dying. The thought of them being hurt makes your skin crawl—or maybe that's just the dirt and the blood that you haven't been able to wash off in days, weeks—who knows how long it's been?_

_The thought of them—any of them—not being there when you return—if you get to return, if you're quick enough, clever enough—it burns. You hear his voice, sometimes—_ _**I will burn the heart out of you.** _ _\--and you remember wanting to laugh. What heart._

_But oh, you have one, you've always had one. It only took losing everything to see what you'd lost._

_So you repeat the names in your head, a list, a litany, a mantra, forcing yourself to be faster with each footfall, a name with each one._

_John._

_Lestrade._

_Mrs. Hudson._

_Molly._

_Mycroft._

_Run, run, run. Do it quick enough and they'll be safer. Be clever enough and you'll make it home. Be strong enough, and the world you knew will still be waiting for you when you're finished.)_

* * *

_Two years was too long. You weren't quick enough, clever enough, strong enough, and--_

_The world wasn't waiting for you when you got back. Nothing was just like you'd left it. Home wasn't home anymore, but you suppose it's better than nothing. You suppose it's better than still running, even if it's not Home._

 

* * *

 

Sherlock doesn't feel right. His fingertips still feel wrinkled from the inordinate amount of time he'd spent in the bath, soaking in the obscenely large clawfoot tub Mycroft had shown him to straight away after they'd made it to the safehouse. He'd come out of the bath feeling much cleaner, almost human, the hot water having done wonders to work out the knots of tension in his back and neck. Mycroft had looked him over, watched him dripping slow, fat drops of water from his long hair, a too-large robe wrapped tightly around himself, and he'd pursed his lips.

“You need a haircut, brother mine,” he'd stated, and Sherlock had shrugged. Mycroft continued to stare at him, and Sherlock assumed he'd been waiting for an answer.

“Fine,” he agreed neutrally. Short hair, long hair, bleached white, his natural black—it didn't much matter to him. He'd done a number of things to disguise himself over the past two years. Hair was just hair.

Mycroft didn't seem reassured by Sherlock's agreement, but he'd nodded and handed a set of neatly pressed and folded clothes over to him. He accepted them wordlessly, and then disappeared back into the bathroom to dress again.

They weren't the clothes he'd left behind, the clothes he'd left in the flat on Baker Street—those wouldn't have fit anymore. He'd lost weight, he knew, and grimaced slightly to himself—weight loss tended to happen when one was being starved.

 _Don't_ , he thought sternly, and turned his attention back to the clothes, hanging the robe up deliberately, avoiding any glance at the mirror for now. Underwear first; the thin, comfortable cotton t-shirt, black, that would go under his button-up; left leg into the trousers, and then the right; arms into the shirt, then the buttons, one at a time. Sherlock dressed methodically, pouring all of his attention into the simple acts. He grimaced at the shoes and socks—his feet were too sore for that, and the cool tile of the bathroom felt good on the swollen soles of his feet. He decided to forgo the shoes, the socks, and the suit jacket, making his way back out into the main room of the safehouse.

Mycroft eyed Sherlock, appraising, merely raising an eyebrow at his brother's bare feet before gesturing towards the table in the corner where a woman stood waiting. Time for his haircut, then.

Sherlock frowned at the table, staring at it for a long moment, shoulders tense, hands clenching into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. He knew that it wasn't the same at all, he _knew that_ , but the idea of lying down, putting himself at someone else's mercy--

“Mr. Holmes?” the woman asked, voice light, but concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“I'd much rather have a chair,” Sherlock ground out, and the woman nodded slowly.

“Of course,” she agreed blandly. “Give me just a few moments to get everything set up.” Sherlock had tried to smile in answer, but whatever expression he'd managed didn't seem to be the right one, judging from the way the woman quickly averted her gaze.

Sherlock didn't look at Mycroft while he waited for the woman to drag a chair out from one of the other rooms, didn't want to know what Mycroft's keen intellect would divine from Sherlock's request. He stood there, clenching his fists, breathing slowly, deliberately, until he settled into the chair, a barber's smock draped over him. She brought out a pair of scissors, and Sherlock pursed his lips, and shook his head.

“A pair of clippers should do,” he said blandly, and she nodded slowly.

“How short would you like it?” Sherlock shrugged. Truthfully, he didn't care, as long as it wasn't the scissors that came close to his head.

It took only a few scant minutes for her work to be finished, using a pair of electric clippers. The end result wasn't quite as short as Sherlock had been expecting, once he ran his hands through it; just long enough to muss, not long enough to curl on its own.

“How is it?” she asked.

“Fine,” Sherlock answered honestly. It was just hair. She seemed to be expecting something else, and Sherlock made the decision not to try to smile again, merely nodding instead. “Thank you.” She seemed satisfied by that, turning away to start sweeping up the hair that had been left behind by her work.

Sherlock stood, half-expecting his knees to give out as they had done any number of times over the past few months, over the past two years, but his legs held steady under him. He straightened slowly, taking a few deep breaths— _in, out, slowly, Sherlock, no good hyperventilating_ —and nodded once to himself minutely.

Mycroft was staring at him, and Sherlock stared back. It was puzzling, trying to figure out what his older brother's expression meant. Before— _Before—_ when Mycroft stared so intently at Sherlock, it was almost... predatory. They were always circling each other, hunters searching for weaknesses to exploit, but Mycroft's countenance spoke of none of that now. He was still scrutinizing Sherlock just as intently, but that sense of _threat_ , of _malice_ from Before was gone.

“You look better,” Mycroft said slowly, vaguely approving. “I'm surprised that you cut off as much as you did of your hair.” Sherlock shrugged.

“It's just hair,” he said. Mycroft smiled fleetingly, tightly.

“So it is. Perhaps you should finish dressing now. We'll need to leave soon, get back to London.” Sherlock nodded, obeying wordlessly.

First sock, left foot. Second sock, right foot. One shoe for the left, one shoe for the right. Tie the laces. Mechanical actions, basic actions, good for taking his mind off of... everything. The past two years. The Past.

 

* * *

 

Now, sitting on another plane with Mycroft, in silence, staring out the window as London's bright lights come into view in the early morning hours, Sherlock doesn't feel right. It's not wholly a physical sensation, either, although his clothes are pulling in all of the wrong places, nothing like the utilitarian garb he'd sported the last two years, and his freshly shorn hair is making his scalp itch; he feels... hollow. Sherlock thinks about it, long and hard, contemplating the feeling, until he finally places it.

He's waiting. He's waiting to wake up and still be in Serbia, to wake up and have to run again, to wake up and have to fight not to say the wrong thing, to be hungry and tired, so _tired_.

He's waiting to see John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly again. He's waiting to go Home. He's waiting for everything to be just like Before.

“He's engaged, you know,” Mycroft says abruptly into the silence without looking up from his newspaper. They're only minutes away from landing. “Dr. Watson's preparing to have a Mrs. Watson.” Sherlock hums a wordless acknowledgment. He isn't surprised—he was expecting this, without Sherlock to chase the women away. John was always very easy to care for.

“He isn't at Baker Street anymore, either,” Mycroft says, and Sherlock finally looks at him. Sensing his brother's gaze, Mycroft lowers his newspaper, folding it neatly and setting it on the seat beside his. “He moved out seventeen days after the initial incident. He hasn't been back since.

“No one else has moved in in his absence, either. I've kept up the rent to Mrs. Hudson, no need to worry about that. She's left all of your things in place,” Mycroft continues, and Sherlock frowns. He says it like Sherlock's _things_ are supposed to comfort him by still being in the same place.

He didn't go hunting, go off to be hunted, for two years for _things_.

“And the others?” Sherlock asks.

“Lestrade's done well in your absence. He was on probation for a year, but with your recent vindication in the court system, everything's beginning to return to normal for him. He divorced, officially, seven months ago.

“Molly Hooper is engaged. Quite happy. Quite anxious to quit keeping secrets for us.” Sherlock's lips twitch in a frown at that—Molly had always been so earnest, and it had pained him a little to ask her to keep this secret for him. Mycroft pauses a moment, noticing Sherlock's expression—he notices everything, Sherlock thinks ruefully—before continuing slowly, moving on.

“Mrs. Hudson is still occupying 221A Baker Street. She takes a few more of her 'herbal soothers' than she used to, but is otherwise in good health.”

Sherlock nods slowly, almost absently. He can picture them, if he tries hard enough. He regretted, after he first left, that he hadn't thought their faces important enough to store away in his mind palace for safe keeping.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock goes to Mrs. Hudson first, if only due to the practical need of a place to live again. He knocks on her door, and clasps his hands behind his back. Tightly.

It takes a few long moments for the door to open, and then Mrs. Hudson is staring at him, wide-eyed, mouth open, still in her dressing gown because it's an ungodly early hour. She blinks once, twice, three times, in rapid succession, closes her mouth, opens it again, and _shrieks_.

Sherlock grimaces at the sound, and Mrs. Hudson brings her hands up to her mouth, cover it, stifling the noise. She calms, reaches out one hand to touch his shoulder, eyes flicking down to where her hand rests, then up again to his face. There are tears welling in her eyes.

“Sh-Sherlock?” she says, voice warbling. “ _Sherlock_?”

“Mrs. Hudson,” he says in flat reply, and thinks about trying to muster a smile for her before recalling the reaction of the hairdresser. Best not.

“Oh, I've finally gone completely dotty!” she cries, taking her hand away from his arm, then slapping him with it in the shoulder, her other hand still pressed against the corner of her mouth. “Hallucinating Sherlock, of all people--”

“I assure you, Mrs. Hudson: I am _quite_ real,” Sherlock states drily, and finally chances a smile. It's tight, but it must be at least an approximation of the right movement, because Mrs. Hudson makes a _noise_ , a pathetic half-sob, before launching herself at him, wrapping him in a hug.

It takes him a long moment to process, his mind screaming in warning at the contact, his body going stiff, his hands unclasping behind his back, reaching into the back of his waistband for a gun he's no longer carrying, and then he forces himself to relax. A good thing, too, because Mrs. Hudson has started to shake against him, her body wracked with the force of her sobs. Finally, he stiffly places his arms around her shoulders, squeezing just a bit, just the barest amount of pressure.

Sherlock leans his head down to murmur in her ear. “I'm real,” he says softly. “I'm here.”

 

* * *

 

(Later, when he thinks about it, he won't know who he was trying to convince.)

 

* * *

 

John is next—he has to be. Sherlock asks Mycroft for his address—he'd frowned, disturbed, when Mrs. Hudson hadn't known it, but hadn't questioned her further, not wanting to think about the implications of that—and he'd woken up in the early afternoon, showered, dressed—he'd been right, his old clothes were a bit big on him, but they would pass, for now, especially with the Belstaff—and hailed a cab, rattling off John's new address like he said it every day.

The cab pulls up at a boring, cheerful suburban house, and Sherlock pays the man and watches him drive off before turning to stare at the door.

At first, that's all that he does: stare. He stares and stares at the door, then at the four low steps leading up to the door, and he looks at the car parked in front of the house, starting to analyze it without his conscious decision to do so—owner's a middle-aged man, practical, yet trying to keep up appearances, judging from the electronics the car was kitted out with--

The door to the Watson residence opens, and Sherlock's gaze jerks to the doorway, startled. There's a woman standing there, looking at him. She's blonde, not too tall, somewhere between 27 and 32, a size 12, with kind eyes, well-manicured nails, one hand holding a cup of tea, the other resting on the edge of the door, standing there in practical jeans, a comfortable sweater—that's John's sweater, Sherlock realizes after a moment, and his mouth twists; he isn't sure how he feels about that level of familiarity yet—and slippers.

“Can I help you?” she asks, voice calm, curious, but not suspicious. Sherlock clears his throat.

“I'm—ah, I'm just... looking for Dr. Watson,” he says slowly. He isn't accustomed to speaking, not really—he exchanged only a few short sentences with Mycroft, and he'd spent the last two years very stubbornly _not talking_.

“Oh, he's out right now. Just popped off to Tesco's,” she says, and Sherlock wants to lecture her, tell her that giving out too much information like that (she's home alone, he knows exactly where to find John now) is a terrible idea, that there is so much _danger_ to be had in something like that, but he doesn't. He doesn't have the words for it, anyway. He realizes he's been silent for far too long, staring dumbly at the future Mrs. Watson, when she speaks again. “Are you a colleague of his?”

“Not... precisely,” Sherlock says. “Just... I'm just an old friend.” She stares him down for a long moment, a small furrow in her brow, and Sherlock knows that he's being judged. He doesn't know what she finds, but after that, her features relax again, and she graces him with a smile.

“Would you like to wait inside? He shouldn't be long,” she offers, and Sherlock nods slowly.

“Yes. Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The interior of the home is just as boringly suburban as the exterior, Sherlock finds. The woman—Mary, she'd introduced her self—sits him down on a cream colored couch in a sitting room that's all different shades of beige and tan and white, soothing, earthy colors, and presses a cup of tea into his hands. He looks down and sees that he's shaking.

Her voice is gentle when she speaks again. “Are you who I think you are?” He looks up at her, forcing himself to hold her gaze before looking back to his tea.

“Probably.”

“You're a lot thinner—hair's a lot shorter than in the pictures of you, and you're nothing like the hyperactive, socially oblivious genius John always described, but... you are, aren't you? Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes.”

“Wow. John is going to... well. He's in for a shock when he gets home,” Mary says, and there's humor in her voice, covering up her own shock. Sherlock doesn't know if he should smile or not, so he doesn't, just nods and continues to stare at his tea, resolutely willing his hands not to shake. It isn't working terribly well. “He's going to have questions, you know.”

“I know.”

“Do you have the answers?” she asks, and Sherlock flinches, even though she wasn't being unkind with her question.

“For some things,” he concedes.

“That's... I'm sure you remember that he has a temper,” Mary says slowly. “I just... please don't take it personally if his first reaction is to punch you.” Sherlock _does_ smile at that, and Mary laughs then.

“He's punched me before. Fewer times than I deserved, probably.” Sherlock takes a tentative sip of his tea, mostly testing whether or not he's going to spill it rather than its taste. Setting it back down into its saucer, giving it up as a lost cause, he carefully places both onto the coffee table and looks at Mary again. “Why did you give up nursing?”

“I—what?” Mary says, blinking in surprise, and then she laughs. “He told me that you did—do that. The deductions, the lack of segues in conversation. To answer your question: I haven't given it up. I've just taken leave for a month or two so that I can focus on planning the wedding.” Something in her expression shifts, then, looking both aggrieved and oddly pleased. “Oh, god, the wedding. He'll want you there, you know.”

 _No_ , Sherlock wants to say, _I don't know. I don't know anything about how to do this. I don't know what I'm doing._ Instead he just nods once, slowly.

The sound of the front door opening causes them to fall silent, and then Mary stands. “Let me tell him, first. Give him a moment to prepare for... this.” Sherlock nods again, silently, watching impassively as Mary disappears down the hall.

There comes the sound of hushed voices, and then a lengthy silence, and then--

And then John Watson is barreling down the hallway, breathing and stomping loudly, and he stops dead in the doorway, staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock stares back. He takes in the bags under John's eyes, the mustache—god, that's awful, he thinks—under his nose, both serving to make him look years older than he is; he takes in the tight set of John's jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders, the clenched fists at his sides.

“Tell me, right now, that you're really here,” John demands, his voice hard, and Sherlock flinches, then nods slowly, all that he can seem to do.

“I'm real,” he repeats, the same words he'd offered Mrs. Hudson, “I'm here.”

John makes a stifled sound, and then shakes his head, exhaling noisily. “You utter _bastard_ ,” he chokes out, and then raises one hand, jabbing two fingers in Sherlock's direction. “You complete, utter _bastard_!” His voice has risen to a roar, and Sherlock flinches again.

He frowns at himself, squeezes his eyes shut momentarily. _This is John. This is just John. He is angry, but you are safe_. The words don't help much, and when he opens his eyes, John is nearly vibrating with his anger.

“I thought you were—Sherlock, I watched you die. I went to your grave. Do you have _any_ idea— _any idea—_ what that did to me?” John demands, and Sherlock sits still, waiting. He doesn't know what he's waiting for, doesn't know what to say, so he sits. “You've been gone for _two years_ , Sherlock. _Two years_. I buried you. I grieved for you. I thought—I had to live with the guilt of you killing yourself every day, Sherlock, every day, for two _bloody_ years, and now you just—turn up again? Just like that, you're going to tell me it was a clever trick?” John shakes his head, and Sherlock sees a wet sheen over his eyes—unshed tears. “You are a complete bastard, Sherlock.”

There's a long moment of silence, and Sherlock gets the same feeling that he's had around everyone he's dealt with in the last few days. John is waiting for him to do something, for him to say something, and Sherlock has no idea what to do, no idea what John wants from him, now.

“John--” Sherlock starts, and then his voice breaks. He clears his throat quietly. “ _John_.”

Somehow, this was not what John wanted to hear. In an instant, he was across the room, hauling Sherlock up by the collar of the Belstaff he hadn't taken off, still shaking with his rage, and Sherlock clenches his fists at his side. _Don't, don't, don't_ , he tells himself. _This is John. Don't—don't do anything. Don't hurt him._

“You bloody _bastard_!” John roars again.

And then comes the punch.

It's entirely expected. Sherlock saw John telegraphing his movements, would've known it was coming even if he hadn't known John as well as he did, even if he hadn't expected a fist to be one of the first greetings he got from his best friend. Sherlock has half a second to respond, so he does what he trained himself to do the last two months of these past two years: he goes limp.

( _Don't tense up when they're hitting you and it doesn't hurt as much. Go with the blows, don't struggle against them. Carry the momentum into a movement, even if that movement is just falling down. It'll help._ )

Of course, the result of Sherlock going limp as John's fist connects with his face is that he _does_ fall. Sherlock ends up on the floor in a heap, one hand slowly going to his face, feeling the split lip, the throbbing cheek. John is standing above him, still trembling with anger, staring down at him, and then--

“Get out, Sherlock,” he says slowly, softly. The anger's gone out of him so suddenly that Sherlock could only blink at him, unable to process the words. John sighs. “Sherlock. Just—leave.”

John's words finally make it to Sherlock's brain, and Sherlock scrambles to his feet haphazardly, ignoring the way his still healing wounds protest at the rapid movement. He meets John's gaze for a long moment, looking for that spark of anger that's making John push him away, finding--

He jerks himself back a step from John when he realizes there _isn't_ any anger in his eyes. The eyes that Sherlock had so fondly remembered as warm, sparkling—they're just staring at him, blank, cold. A shiver goes down Sherlock's spine, and he nods once, twice, and brushes past John to leave.

Sherlock stops in the entryway where Mary is staring, wide-eyed, at him. “I'm... I've gone back to Baker Street,” he settles on saying. “Thank you for the tea, Mary.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock lets Lestrade come to him, at Baker Street, instead of seeking out the policeman. Lestrade knocks twice, and then opens the door without waiting for a response. Sherlock sits up from where he'd been lying on the sofa, staring at Lestrade, who stares back, eyes wide.

It's Lestrade who breaks the silence first. He nods to the cigarette Sherlock has between his fingers. “Those things'll kill you.” It's an old saying between them, and Sherlock's lips quirk at that. “Gimme one?” Sherlock obliges, tossing him the pack he'd taken from Mrs. Hudson. (He hasn't gone out since his trip to see John.) Lestrade catches the pack, and then jerks his chin at Sherlock. “Budge over.” Sherlock obliges, making room on the sofa, and Lestrade settles himself down at angle so that he's still able to look at Sherlock. He shakes his head slowly. “You bastard.” Sherlock's smile fades.

“That was John's sentiment also.” Lestrade winces.

“Yeah, I heard about that,” he says. “You, ah... well. Bit of a shock for him.”

“A shock,” Sherlock repeats softly. “Hmm. Yes. I suppose it must've been.”

“I have questions, you know,” Lestrade says, and Sherlock nods wearily, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Lestrade sighs. “But not today.”

“No?”

“No,” Lestrade confirms, smiling at him. “C'mere.” He reaches one arm out to wrap around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him over into something that's half a hug and half Sherlock laying on Lestrade. Every instinct Sherlock had honed over the last two years screams at the contact, screams at his vulnerability in this position, just as his abused body is screaming as his wounds are tugged at uncomfortably. “I missed you. You complete... well. I missed you.”

“I... Graham?” Sherlock asks tentatively, and Lestrade barks a laugh.

“Greg,” he corrects without malice, and Sherlock huffs. He'd been so sure it was Graham.

“I knew it started with a 'G,'” Sherlock mutters, and Lestrade laughs again.

They sit and smoke in companionable silence, and little by little, with each passing minute, Sherlock's tension begins to fade away. Lestrade finally puts out his cigarette, then plucks the butt from between Sherlock's fingers and stubs that out as well. The silence stretches on, and Sherlock finds his eyes attempting to close.

“S'alright,” murmurs Lestrade. “You never slept enough as it is. I'll be here for a bit.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wakes slowly, with the confused, questioning feeling of someone who hadn't intended to fall asleep, who hadn't realized they'd done it. He's in his bed, on his side, pressed up against another body. There's a hand running through his hair, fingers gently kneading his scalp, and he hums in involuntary pleasure at the sensation. He hears a low chuckle in response, and blinks himself awake.

Lestrade, he realizes after a moment. Lestrade's still here, had brought him to sleep in his bedroom. They're both on top of the covers, Lestrade stretched out, legs crossed at the ankle, holding his phone in one hand, his other still resting easily in Sherlock's hair. The younger man twists, the hand leaving his hair as he sits up, and makes eye contact.

“How'd you sleep?” Lestrade asks with a grin. Sherlock frowns thoughtfully, appraising himself—he had grown so used to the bone-deep weariness of one who could never truly relax, of one who only managed to sleep in stolen hours here and there, huddled in darkness. Now, he feels—well, he's still exhausted, because a couple of hours of good sleep really isn't enough to make up for two years of cat napping. He nods to Lestrade.

“Well,” he answers, and Lestrade's grin is small, genuinely pleased. “Thank you.”

“'Course,” Lestrade says easily. “You still look exhausted, but—better. And I like the new 'do.” Lestrade reaches out before Sherlock can stop him to ruffle his short hair, ignoring Sherlock's indignant huff as he does so. “Now, second order of business. You've never been very good at feeding yourself, and judging from how thin you've gotten, it doesn't seem to have gotten any better, hmm?”

Sherlock recognizes this, remembers this. It's been a very, very long time since it was Lestrade here, doing this for him, making sure that he takes care of himself, that he doesn't manage to kill himself out of sheer negligence; he'd still been a junkie, then, Lestrade coming 'round when he could to Montague Street, bringing him food and sitting with him long enough to make sure he was just high and not OD'ing.

He's not sure if he appreciates the gesture now or not, but he learned back then that it was better to submit to the inspector's will. The man's damned persistent if nothing else.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade prompts, and he forces his gaze to the other man's, realizing his thoughts have wandered. Lestrade frowns at him as he sees awareness coming back to Sherlock, but doesn't comment on it. Sherlock recognizes this, too. This is his grace period, where Lestrade focuses on getting him fixed up, getting him to something approximating a human being again. The questions will come later. “Chinese alright?”

“Fine,” Sherlock agrees.

“Do you mind if Molly brings it?” Lestrade asks, and Sherlock shrugs in answer.

“Not at all. She can answer some of your questions, actually,” he replies, and Lestrade's expression turns rueful, then.

“I got that impression, yeah. When we heard you were back—well. She didn't seem as shocked as the rest of us.” Sherlock nods in acceptance of this information because there's nothing else for him to do with it. “When's the last time you showered? Changed clothes?”

“Yesterday.” Lestrade huffs a laugh.

“You sure about that?” Sherlock frowns, wavers.

“What day is it?”

“It's Wednesday.” He nods.

“Two days ago, then.”

“Okay. You go take a bath, and I'll call in the order,” Lestrade says easily, and Sherlock nods. He wants to ask why Lestrade is here, wants to know what he did to make Lestrade want to take care of him, wants to know how long it'll be before Lestrade gives him that _look_ , the one that says “I'm disappointed, but I'm still here for you even though I know you won't understand why.”

 

* * *

 

Molly is pleased to see him, and, seeing as it's the third or fourth hug he's received in the last few weeks, Sherlock manages to stop being tense after only a few seconds of her arms wrapped around him. He squeezes her shoulder awkwardly, patting her back, and lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding when she pulls back, looking pleased with his efforts.

“It's good to see you, Sherlock,” she says as she and Lestrade work on opening the take away containers, distributing the chopsticks. Sherlock hums a wordless reply, and sits down on the couch, crossing one leg over the other, watching them. Lestrade lingers over his task, drawing it out, taking the time to ask Molly what she knows. One glance at Sherlock—he nods his head in consent—and Molly's telling him everything she knows. It's not a lot, not really, not when Sherlock thinks about the whole of the last two years ( _don't think about it, that's a terrible idea_ ), but it answers some of the more basic questions everyone's likely to have, like “why isn't he dead?”

The next moment there's a container being pressed into his hand: pad thai, and a fork pressed into the other instead of chopsticks. His hands are still shaking, and he wonders if they don't have any chopsticks or if one of them noticed.

Dinner is quiet, with Molly taking on most of the burden of conversation, chattering away at them both about what had happened in her life over the last two years. Sherlock takes in only vague impressions of what she's saying—new boyfriend, probably soon to be a fiance, they didn't meet through work this time, thank god—and instead thinks about the fact that none of the people most important to him kept in touch all this time. Sure, Lestrade saw Molly when it was case-related, but otherwise...

It was just like how Mrs. Hudson had told him that John had come to see her once while he was “dead.” Once. In two years.

“Sherlock.” He looks up, Lestrade standing next to him, leaning towards him but not over him, purposefully giving him space, trying not to intimidate him. “Well, that's something, at least.” He realizes that Lestrade's looking at his pad thai, of which Sherlock's managed to eat less than half, but the inspector seems pleased just the same. Lestrade gestures towards it. “Done? Want me to put that away for you?” Sherlock nods and holds it out, eyes tracking Lestrade's movements as he heads back towards the kitchen to put it into the fridge, but he's not really taking it in.

There doesn't seem to be any transition—the next moment, Lestrade is crouched down in front of where he's still sitting in his chair, the barest touch of Lestrade's hand on one of his wrists grounding him.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, voice pitched low, soft, as if he's trying not to startle him, “are you alright?”

Sherlock wants to smile, wants to laugh at the question. It's utterly ridiculous—he's home for the first time in two years, how could he be better? (Even as he thinks that answer, Sherlock knows that he's not.)

He shrugs. “This doesn't... feel real.” Lestrade nods slowly, and there's something wary, yet sad, in his expression when he smiles at Sherlock.

“It will,” he assures him. “It's been two years. You just need some time to adjust—we all do.”

“Of course,” Sherlock agrees easily, without feeling.

“I'm gonna—I have work, tomorrow. Mind if I pop by after that?” Lestrade asks, squeezing the wrist he's still holding for a brief moment, and Sherlock shrugs.

“Fine.”

“Okay,” Lestrade breathes, smiling at him. “I'll see you then, alright? Try to sleep a bit more. And—call. If you need me.”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock shoots back, but it's more remembered habit than any desire to banter, any need to have the last word. Still, it makes Lestrade chuckle.

“'Course,” the inspector murmurs, rising. He seems to war with himself for a moment before making a decision, bending down quickly to press a light kiss to Sherlock's forehead. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

 

* * *

 

_The air is freezing cold, but feels heavy, choked with mold and mildew. In the background, Sherlock hears the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the water leaking from above somewhere. His shoulders are burning, being stretched in such a position for so long, his wrists still chained to opposite walls. He's given up on trying to stand—gave up on that hours ago, actually. His head is bowed, and he can't recall what he's been thinking about for the past few hours. Days? He doesn't know. Time doesn't seem to mean much down here._

_“You want to sleep, hmm?” He hears, and he shivers—it's one of_ _**them** _ _. “Of course, of course you can. Just answer a few little questions and you can go to sleep, hmm?” Sherlock doesn't have any words to say in reply, so he just shakes his head wearily, his too-long hair getting in his face as he does. “No? I guess you don't want to sleep then. Here, boy. Let me help. I will make you sleep.”_

_Sherlock wants to protest, wants to say no, bu_ _t knows it won't do any good, so he doesn't give him the satisfaction. The man goes to the table shoved up against the wall, the table that holds their... instruments, and chooses a knife. The man steps closer, and Sherlock doesn't lift his head—his thoughts start racing, he takes in everything he can about this man, frantic to think of something, anything else, anything but what's about to happen._

_He looks at the man's shoes, taking in every scuff, every stain, the rumpled hem of the man's uniform, the scars and callouses on his fingers._

_Widower, his mind whispers, even as the man steps behind him, and then he frowns—no, that's not quite right. He killed her—probably an accident. Probably got too rough one night. That doesn't bode well for him._

_There's no warning as pain, burning, bright and sharp, floods his senses as the knife is summarily shoved into his lower back, off to the right side. Sherlock gasps, but doesn't scream. He doesn't think he could scream at this point even if he'd wanted to, not with his throat in such a state. He'd screamed too much already for that._

_“Don't worry, little one,” the man murmurs, stroking fingers down his shoulderblade. “I've left everything important alone. No_ _**real** _ _damage, just hurts, yeah?” Sherlock doesn't dignify that with a response, just trying to breathe through the pain. Just when it starts to ebb, the presence of the knife still unpleasant, but not quite as sharp, the man grabs the hilt and_ _**twists** _ _._

_Sherlock doesn't know if he screams, then, because it's not long before everything goes black._

 

* * *

 

He does scream as he wakes up, his chest heaving as he gasps for breath, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. He can _feel_ the knife wound, burning, even though it had been stitched and was now healing, was now on its way to being just another ugly scar. Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, then turns his head—there's his periodic table. There's his coat, hanging on the back of the door. He's in Baker Street, in his bedroom, not in Serbia. He's in Baker Street, he repeats again, and John's just upstairs--

His heart skips a beat as he realizes that, no. John is not just upstairs. John is across town, and he's not coming.

Sherlock levers himself up and out of bed in one movement, ignoring the protest of his still-healing body, and heads for the bathroom. Time for another scalding bath.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't go back to sleep, instead sitting in his chair, clasping his hands together, staring at the board he's made on the wall, his half-hearted attempt to work. His rats, he calls them. He looks over each one, discarding possibilities as he goes. Sherlock's managed to whittle them down from twelve to three useful possibilities when there's s sharp rap on the door, and then it's opening. He half-expects Lestrade, but it's still too early for that. He glances up—Mycroft. He doesn't groan.

“How goes the case, brother mine?” Mycroft asks conversationally. Sherlock knows how much pressure's being put onto Mycroft about this, knows that it's probably stressful. Mycroft doesn't need to put any urgency into his voice for Sherlock to know that this is urgent. Sherlock gestures vaguely towards the board he'd been staring at.

“My rats,” he says slowly. “Waiting to see who's going to jump ship.” Mycroft sighs noisily, an unspoken complaint against his brother's methods.

“Waiting takes time that we can ill afford, Sherlock.”

“As opposed to doing what? I'm a detective, Mycroft. I deduce clues, but to deduce anything, I must gather information first.

“Trust me, Mycroft—the answer will come in the form of an unexpected vacation, someone who doesn't show up to work, someone who stops calling their mother abruptly. The answer will come. We must just wait.”

Mycroft doesn't reply, just stares at him (and that in itself is bothersome to Sherlock—the Mycroft from Before would've been glaring). Finally, he speaks again, slowly, quietly. “I heard that you went to see Dr. Watson.”

“I did.”

“And how did he receive the news of your return?”

“You already know,” Sherlock states flatly, refusing to play along. “It's obvious, isn't it?”

“Very.”

“There is your answer, then.”

“You cannot simply stay here for the rest of your life, waiting for Dr. Watson to push you out into the world again, Sherlock,” Mycroft rebukes, and it's almost gentle.

“I will be fine, Mycroft. I'm waiting for my answers, for my clues. 'Underground terrorist network' is not much of a lead.”

“I understand,” Mycroft concedes with the barest of nods, allowing his brother to change the subject back to the case. “Just get it done.”

“I always do.”

 

* * *

 

It's a lucky thing that Lestrade has decided to check up on Sherlock each day: it forces the detective to at least lay in bed, pretending to sleep (although, oftentimes, he really only sleeps when Lestrade is there beside him, talking about cold case files, Sherlock murmuring solutions ever more slowly as sleep dragged him down to claim him), and then get up and take a bath and get dressed each day. He has to keep up appearances, after all.

It's lucky, because otherwise, who knows what kind of mess he would've looked like when Mary Morstan—soon to be Watson, Sherlock recalled with a mild grimace—finally makes her debut at Baker Street.

“I think John's missing,” she says, and that's all Sherlock needs to hear. He's racing down the stairs, nevermind the fact that it's chilly out and he's only wearing slacks and a too-big button-up, no Belstaff. Mary is there, holding her phone in her hand like it's got the secrets of the universe just waiting to be unlocked, and there's Mrs. Hudson, asking who she is before realization hits the older woman.

“Oh, you're _that_ Mary! John's Mary! He did tell me about you,” Mrs. Hudson's saying inanely, and Sherlock wants to scream, because did she not just hear what Mary said?

“Mary,” Sherlock calls, and both she and Mrs. Hudson look up to where he's all but running down the stairs. “What did you say? Where's John?”

“I'm not sure,” Mary says, and holds up her phone. “I got this text—at first I thought it was some kind of religious mass text—like spam—but it's not. It's a skip code.” Sherlock blinks at her once, twice—skip code? Why is she able to recognize that so easily, much less put a name to it? A question for later, he decides, and looks at the message.

 _Save John Watson. Saint John the Less_.

“Saint John the Less—it's a church,” Sherlock says. “I know it. Did you drive here?” He's headed out the front door without even stopping to confirm that Mary's behind him, without going back for a coat. There isn't time—not if John's in danger. There isn't time.

“Yes.”

“Too slow,” Sherlock mutters, even as Mary heads for the car. He shakes his head. “No. Wait, just--”

“Wait? What are we waiting for?” There's tension in her voice, and it soothes something in Sherlock—she's distressed about her fiance's disappearance, but not falling to pieces. A strong woman—a good woman—and one who loves John. Sherlock glances back at her, and then jerks his head towards the roadway.

“This!” He throws a hand out, hoping that the biker will stop in time. If not... oh well. He's run with cracked ribs before. He can do it again—for John.

Thankfully, it's a non-issue. The biker stops, and actually recognizes Sherlock, which turns out to be helpful. It's not common knowledge, yet, that he's back, that he's alive, and the man is surprisingly eager to give his transportation up to a ghost-detective who's insisting that a man's life depends upon it.

He decides to drive, even though his shaking hands and thrumming head tell him that he shouldn't. Mary doesn't know the fastest way to the church—he does. And Sherlock has to get there in time. Sherlock has to save John. He can run on adrenaline, just for a little longer, just until they find John. (He ran on nothing but adrenaline and stubbornness for two years. He can make do a few hours more.)

He's weaving, too quickly, too recklessly, in and out of traffic, but he won't crash because he can't. He doesn't have time for an accident—he has to save John. Mary's grip on him is firm, but not too tight. She's not afraid. Sherlock wonders again, briefly, who she _is_.

Sherlock doesn't even have time to wonder who, doesn't even have time to be angry, when they find John at the top of a bonfire. Mary, Sherlock's ashamed to say, does most of the heavy lifting work of getting John down from there—Sherlock's gotten weak, his muscles wasting away with lack of food, with confinement. A shudder goes through him—what if Mary hadn't been here? What if--

John's eyes are opening. “John! John!” Sherlock calls, Mary beside him, doing the same. John coughs once, twice, and then groans. “John, can you hear me?”

“Mary?” John croaks, and then looks to Sherlock, his eyes narrowing. “Sherlock?”

“Oh, thank god,” Mary gasps. “He's okay!” That's directed at Sherlock, and it takes him a beat to realize that, Mary reaching over to squeeze his arm, give him a smile. Sherlock nods, has no idea what expression he's making, but--

He lets himself fall hard to the ground, the adrenaline rush fading, his mission complete. John's been saved. John's fine, John's—with Mary, now.

It takes him another long moment to realize that he's not actually shaking as hard as he originally thought—his phone's vibrating in his pocket. He draws it out, looks at the display, ready to tell Mycroft to fuck off. It's Lestrade. He hits answer, puts the phone to his ear, forgets to say anything.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade says, sounding a touch concerned. “You okay? I'm at the flat, brought Angelo's—you went out?”

“I—Mary and I are at Saint James the Less. The church. With John.”

“Is everything okay?” Lestrade asks, because Sherlock's never this vague, never this brief—his voice never shakes this much. “Is everyone alright?”

“Fine, Lestrade—we're all fine. You might want to come anyway, though. We should make a report.”

“A police report?” Lestrade clarifies.

“Yes.” (And, two years ago, Sherlock would've gotten nasty, would've condescended, asking what _other_ kind of report Lestrade could've been helpful in making.)

“Okay. I'll be there in—five. I've got a car, I'll flash my blues and I'll be right there, okay? Sit tight. Don't wander off.”

“I won't,” Sherlock assures him, even if it's only because he's not sure that his legs would hold if he tried to stand right now. He hangs up, then, staring at the black screen for a long moment.

“Sherlock?” He looks up at Mary, who's studying him intently. “Thank you. For helping.”

“Of course.”

“He's—there's an ambulance coming, just in case John needs any oxygen or anything like that. He should be fine, though,” she says, and Sherlock frowns, noticing finally that John wasn't next to them anymore. He looks around quickly, not-quite-frantically, and calms when he sees John sitting on a park bench just behind Mary.

“Lestrade is coming,” Sherlock says without any real idea if Mary and Lestrade have met, if Mary even knows who he is. “He'll—John should make a report.”

“Of course,” Mary echoes him, smiling. She holds out a hand, offering to help him up. Sherlock takes half a second to decide, and then clasps it, allowing her to pull him up, letting her steady him when he sways on his feet. “Come on. You need to sit down.”

“I was sitting down,” Sherlock mumbles in protest as she guides him to sit beside John. Mary laughs, a bright, pretty sound. Sherlock is finding more and more that he hates her less and less—that he really can't hate her at all.

“Yes, well, sit here, on a bench, like a civilized person, instead of getting trampled on the ground, alright?” Mary says, shaking her head at him as she carefully but firmly pushes him down next to John. “I'm going to go look for the ambulance.”

She strides off purposefully, and John and Sherlock are left alone. John's breathing is heavy, but not labored, and he's not coughing. Minimal smoke inhalation, then. Mary was right—he should be fine.

“Mary is... impressive,” Sherlock says quietly, first to break the silence. He doesn't look at John, staring resolutely straight ahead, even though he can see John turn his head to look at him out of the corner of his eye. “Cool under pressure. Useful.”

“That's—she shouldn't have to handle that kind of _pressure_ , Sherlock,” John grates out, and there's still a huge, surging undercurrent of _anger_ there that makes him wince. “She's not... she isn't like us.” Sherlock wants to protest, wants to start pouring out observations, deductions, but—he would have, if this were two years ago. If this were two years ago, John wouldn't have a fiancee, he'd still be living in Baker Street, and Sherlock would actually _know_ what to say to that.

“I like her,” Sherlock decides to say instead. “I hope she makes you happy.” There's silence for a long while after that, John having no idea what to say in return.

“You haven't been eating, have you?” John asks finally, and the anger is gone, vanished, replaced by weariness. It's still not the friendliness, the candor that Sherlock would like, but it's better than the anger. Anything's better than John's anger, all that righteous fury directed right at him.

“I have,” Sherlock denies. “Takeaway, mostly.”

“How can you pick up a takeaway when you haven't left the flat?” John mutters, accusatory, and Sherlock finally does look at him, then, hope blossoming—maybe John does still care. Maybe they can still be friends. Because if John knows that Sherlock hasn't been leaving Baker Street, he's been checking up on him. He's concerned. He _cares_.

“Lestrade brings it by, mostly,” Sherlock admits, and John shakes his head, eyes darting over every inch of Sherlock's face.

“I'm still... I'm still angry, Sherlock.”

“I know.”

“I'm going to be angry for—well, for a while.”

“I know.”

“I just need some time,” John says, and Sherlock finally smiles.

“Of course.”

“Because you—you were _dead_ , Sherlock, gone. And now you're—not.”

“No.”

“So I just need some time,” John repeats, and Sherlock nods.

“Of course.” He jerks his head to the side. “Ah. There's Lestrade.”

 

* * *

 

Lestrade takes Sherlock home, assigning a junior officer to find the man who had loaned Sherlock and Mary his motorcycle.

“It's too late to keep your miraculous reappearance a secret, you know,” the policeman remarks as he pulls up to Baker Street. “Camera phones _everywhere_. They're Tweeting about it, too, you know. You've got your own hashtags, now.”

“My own what?” Sherlock asks. “I wasn't listening.”

“Typical,” Lestrade grunts, but it's not judgmental, or even annoyed. “C'mon, then.” Lestrade walks behind him up the stairs to the flat, just in case Sherlock were to fall down—a distinct possibility, Sherlock finds, having to grasp the railing. “What had your head in the clouds then, hmm?”

“I was wondering who would do this to John,” Sherlock answers quietly. “I was—I was so _certain_ that I'd been thorough, that I'd dismantled Moriarty's entire network. What if I hadn't?”

“Moriarty wasn't the only criminal in the world, Sherlock. Mycroft confirmed it—you _were_ thorough. You did it. You beat him. He's gone.” Sherlock hums, but doesn't answer. “I can reheat Angelo's, if you like.” Sherlock shakes his head.

“I'd rather sleep, for now.”

“You need to eat.”

“Later,” Sherlock concedes with a wave of his hand, and then looks Lestrade in the eye. “Please.”

Lestrade hesitates for only a moment, because whenever Sherlock asks—actually _asks_ for something, politely—it's almost guaranteed that he's going to get it. “Alright. C'mon.”

For the first time, Lestrade falls asleep beside him, staying through the night. Sherlock gets a full eight hours of sleep that night, no nightmares, and doesn't think too hard on why that is.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I wasn't lying, you know,” Sherlock says to the hard, unyielding wall that is an angry John Watson. “I really don't have any idea how to _defuse_ a bomb.”

“Sherlock, I _swear_ to _God_ \--” John's fists are clenched, shaking at his sides, and Sherlock is already preparing to go limp again when a fist connects with his face, but—it doesn't. John takes a deep, steadying breath, and shakes his head. “You are still a ruddy _bastard_.”

“I'm fairly certain my parents were married at the time of my birth.”

“ _Sherlock_ , would you just _shut up_ ,” John roars, but it's mostly—it's nerves, adrenaline and leftover anger, not actual fury that raises his voice. Sherlock... is okay with this. “I... we should go have tea. At Baker Street. I still have questions, and Mary—she should be asleep, by now.”

“Alright,” Sherlock concedes easily, and waves over Anthea, who had shown up in Mycroft's stead once they heard that the situation had been resolved. “Mind giving us a lift?”

“Not at all. Where are you headed?”

“Baker Street.” Anthea looks at John, appearing more smug than usual, and she nods.

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson is up when they get to the flat, talking to Lestrade, who's given up on sleeping at his own empty flat in favor of helping Sherlock sleep through the night; Sherlock suspects that Mrs. Hudson told the inspector about the extremely, horrifyingly embarrassing way Sherlock screams his head off through the night when Lestrade _isn't_ there. But none of them mention it, so he doesn't mind too much.

“John,” Lestrade says, a grin spreading over his face, eyes darting from John to Sherlock and back again. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” John says, even though they'd just seen each other the day before. At a crime scene. Where John had been kidnapped and nearly burned to death. But, then, Sherlock realizes that Lestrade's happy to see John _here_ , at Baker Street. With Sherlock.

“There's lasagne in the oven still. I want at least a plateful more gone when I wake up, yeah?” Lestrade says, directing it to Sherlock. “Help yourself too, John. I'm off to bed.”

“Goodnight,” John says, bemused, watching as Lestrade squeezes Sherlock's shoulder and then pads off towards—Sherlock's bedroom. John frowns, looks back to Sherlock, who--

Who's actually obeying Lestrade's orders, pulling the still-warm dinner out of the oven. “Would you like some? Lestrade made it, so you can be sure there's no eyeballs or fingernails anywhere.” John feels a hysterical giggle bubbling up in his throat at that, and just nods instead. Sherlock busies himself dishing out two plates, taking one of them and heading for his chair, pulling his feet up onto it, resting his plate on his knees, eating slow, small bites.

John follows, sitting out of long habit in what was once _his_ chair, and is now—well, it's just a chair, he thinks, but he knows he's wrong from the way Sherlock's eyes flash with pleasure when John sits where he should. They eat in silence, until Sherlock decides that he's had enough—not even half of the plate, but it's an effort, and John isn't willing to call him out on it.

“You have questions,” Sherlock says, lowering his feet back down to the ground, crossing one leg over another. His right hand rests on the chair, fist clenched hard, and his left hand is nervously tapping out patterns, drumming them onto his thigh.

“I do.”

“Ask them. I'll answer what I can.”

“I—why?”

Sherlock frowns at him. “I calculated that there were thirteen possible outcomes for my rooftop meeting with Moriarty. Each was carefully planned for, alternatives devised, and given a code name. Mycroft was standing by, ready to help me carry out whatever plan became necessary. Moriarty demanded my death. I goaded him to his own--”

“If... Sherlock, if he was dead, if he died on that rooftop, then why... why did you jump?” John's proud—his voice is mostly steady.

“Moriarty was gone, but his network—his supporters—remained. There were... well, then, there were three killers, ready to... Moriarty had a list. A list of people he would kill if I did not obey.”

“Oh, god,” John murmurs, seeing exactly where Sherlock is going with this. Sherlock nods minutely.

“You. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade.” One side of Sherlock's mouth quirks up in a small smile. “But he forgot one.”

“Molly Hooper,” John says, and Sherlock nods. John and Molly had already spoken since Sherlock had come back—Molly had called him, and that had been quite the conversation. It had started with her confessing that she'd been in on it the entire time, begging for his forgiveness, telling him how horrid she'd felt keeping a secret like that for _two years_ ; then she'd torn into him about how he'd treated Sherlock when he first saw him; and finally, Molly had cried.

“Sherlock came back,” she had said, voice shaking, “but... it's almost like he didn't. Like a big part of him didn't come back at all. He needs us—he needs _you_.”

Sitting here with Sherlock, now, it was easy to see what Molly had meant. Sherlock is... more subdued, than he had been. He's thinner—his hair is cut shorter, and that had been just as much of a shock as anything else, god knows why—and his eyes... Sherlock's eyes scare John the most. There are times, just sitting there for the space of the ten hours it had taken them to find the forgotten train station, to find the car with the explosives inside—John had seen Sherlock's eyes go glassy, a far-away look to them, as if he was still physically in the same room with John, but somewhere else, deep inside his head. John used to see that look a lot, when Sherlock would disappear into his mind palace—but even then, a spark had remained in Sherlock's eyes. Not now.

“Sherlock,” John says gently, breaking the silence for the first time in a few, long minutes. “What were you doing, the last two years?”

“I told you,” Sherlock answers, frowning at him in confusion and slight irritation. “I was dismantling Moriarty's network, untangling his web.”

“I know, but—I was asking what you had to _do_ to get that done.” Sherlock's expression smooths suddenly, going blank, and then he purses his lips, shakes his head once, twice.

“No, John. I'd rather not talk about that just now.”

“Alright,” John says, and then grins, feeling impish, wanting to get back at Sherlock for his little trick in the tube. “Let's talk about Lestrade. What's he doing, sleeping in your bedroom?”

“Sleeping, John. Obviously,” Sherlock answers as if John is _slow_.

“And where will you sleep?”

“It is my room.”

“So you'll sleep in the same bed with him?” John asks, and Sherlock shrugs jerkily.

“That is the obvious conclusion, is it not?” Sherlock answers. “Lestrade doesn't want to be in an empty house after his divorce. I want—to sleep.”

John frowns, then, not finding this as funny as he thought he would. The implication there is that Sherlock _needs_ Lestrade there to be able to sleep, and that is... not comforting. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I am glad that you got rid of that awful mustache,” Sherlock says, and John's eyes narrow, but he can't be angry, not when he finally sees a little bit of that teasing, mischievous glint in Sherlock's expression.

“Yes, fine, I get it, I know. It was bloody terrible, everyone hated it—good, I'm glad we've got it sorted.”

“It wouldn't do to have had it in your wedding pictures. It would have tainted them forever.” John stares at Sherlock, unsure of what to say—unsure of what to _feel_. Something about Sherlock talking about his marriage, talking about him and Mary and the rest of forever... it made John's heart skip a beat, sent him farther over the moon than he'd thought he could be.

“Did you mean it? When you said that you like Mary, I mean.”

“I don't say things that I don't mean, John,” Sherlock answers gravely. “Yes. I like Mary.”

“Good. That's... I'm glad,” John says, and then stands. “Speaking of Mary, I should get home.”

“Alright,” Sherlock says easily, although John can see the tension that's suddenly gathered in the set of Sherlock's jaw, in his rigidly held shoulders. “I'll, ah, see you?”

Oh, Sherlock, John thinks, and smiles at him, nods. Sherlock was worried John was going to refuse to see him again.

“I'll come 'round. What with the hype about your return from the dead, I might just have to write a new blog post. Have any interesting cases on?”

Sherlock's smile was strained, but genuine. “Oh, yes. Some might even have me seeing a bit of trouble. I don't suppose you'd want any part of that, now that you're settling down.”

“Oh, god, yes,” John laughs. “The suburbs are getting a bit... well. Boring.” Sherlock joins him in chuckling for a moment before nodding.

“Good, then. I'll be glad to have you back, John.”

“You too, Sherlock. You have no idea.” Sherlock's smile changed, tainted now with sadness, grief—he looked... haunted.

“I think I do. Goodnight, John.”


End file.
